Deadly Forecast

  Dutch turned to go back into the kitchen. “And solving a case,” he added.

  I sighed. I’d forgotten about that. “Yeah. That too.”

  Much of the rest of my exhaustive day was spent overseeing the movers as they carefully loaded almost all of our belongings into the two pods, which were then loaded onto a truck and carted off somewhere to be stored until Tuesday. Dutch took the pups to the pet spa/boarding kennel, where they wouldn’t get underfoot, and he and I agreed to keep them there until after we’d moved in. They’d of course have to go back to the spa only three days later right before the wedding (I’d put my foot down about not including them in the ceremony—no way was I going to risk having them attacked by swans), and I hoped that Eggy and Tuttle weren’t going to be sad about spending so much time away from us.

  Dutch worked from home for only part of the morning, and then he got called into the office. Gaston was back from Washington and wanted a briefing. I jotted a few notes of my impressions for Dutch to give to Gaston and figured he’d be back soon, as we hadn’t really gathered much in the way of leads.

  While the movers took a lunch break, I called Candice. “Just thinking of you,” she sang by way of hello. “Wondering if I should buy those expensive Christian Louboutin pumps we saw at Neiman Marcus for the wedding.”

  I rolled my eyes. “The wedding was never off,” I told her. “It was just a big misunderstanding.”

  “Mmmhmmm,” she said in that way that made me think she didn’t believe me one hundred percent.

  “It was,” I insisted. “I just don’t want to be Mrs. Dutch Rivers, you know?”

  There was a pause, then, “Maybe I should wait until Friday morning to head to the mall.”

  I sighed. Why was it so hard for everyone to understand me lately? “The name, Candice. I’m not sure I want to use the name. I’ve been Ms. Abby Cooper for so long that Mrs. Rivers sounds like I’d be playing an impostor. Plus, Dutch’s mom is Mrs. Rivers, and I can’t compete with that.”

  “Oh, I get it,” Candice assured me. “And if you had explained it to him like that, I wouldn’t be cleaning up after the two drunkards who made a mess of my living room last night.”

  “Dutch bolted before I had the chance to explain.”

  “But you’ve talked to him about it and he understands now, right?”

  I hesitated. “Sort of.”

  “You didn’t tell him what you meant, did you?”

  “I can save that argument for later.”

  “So…I probably shouldn’t put away the spare pillow and blanket, huh?”

  “You’re not helping.” I’m not so charming when I haven’t slept.

  Candice laughed lightly. “Okay, okay, Abs. I’ll lay off. What’s going on besides all that?”

  “Dutch is headed to the office to brief Gaston on our progress. I’m surprised you didn’t get a call to go in.”

  “I gave my notes to Brice. He left a half hour ago.”

  “Yeah, I gave Dutch my notes too. They were pretty short. Dutch told me you were working on Mimi Greene’s background. Did you get anywhere?”

  Candice sighed. “The girl was a ghost,” she said. “Just like her sister. I couldn’t find any social media accounts in her name and the best I could do was pull up some news articles about the fire she was killed in.”

  “Was it bad?”

  “It was. She was killed in a gas explosion.”

  My brow shot up. “An explosion?”

  Candice chuckled. “I thought you’d hit on that. Yeah, according to the article there was a suspected gas leak in her apartment that went off around eleven in the morning. Eleven eleven on the eleventh, to be exact.”

  “That’s weird,” I said, and felt the smallest ping to my radar.

  “Right? Freaky coincidence.”

  I don’t believe in coincidences, but I kept that to myself. “Was anyone else killed?” I asked.

  “No, thank God. The apartments around her were mostly empty at the time with all the tenants having left for work. Mimi was the only fatality. Still, I want to talk to the arson investigator, because it’s a bit too close for comfort, don’t you think? Both daughters dying in explosions.”

  “Totally. Keep me posted on that, would you?”

  “Of course.” And with a hint of humor in her voice she added, “And you keep me posted about buying those Louboutins.”

  I rolled my eyes. I was surrounded by comedians. “Go ahead and get them, Cassidy.”

  “Yeah?”

  It was my turn to chuckle. “Yeah. If I turn into a runaway bride, you can always return them, you know.”

  We both laughed, but deep down something about what I’d just said greatly troubled me—as if I’d hit on something that contained a grain of truth.

  “Girl, if I break down and buy a six-hundred-dollar pair of shoes, I’m keeping ’em, so you’d better get married, or I’ll come find you and drag you back to the altar, you hear?”

  I laughed again, but that sinking foreboding remained.

  T-Minus 00:34:15

  “We can find her, Dutch,” Candice said for probably the tenth time since they’d decided to head to Margo’s. M.J. thought she was trying to reassure herself as much as she was trying to reassure Abby’s fiancé. “We’ll get to her in time. We will.”

  M.J. couldn’t help but check the clock on the dash of Dutch’s car every ten seconds or so. As fast as they were darting in and out of traffic, they weren’t going nearly fast enough, she thought. At last Brody shouted, “There!” and M.J. saw that he was pointing to a storefront for a beauty supply store. Dutch stomped on the brake and everyone in the car jolted forward. Gilley thunked his head on the back of Dutch’s seat and he let out a small wail. “Owww!”

  But Dutch didn’t look back, because he was already out of the car and hurrying to the front of the store. Brody, M.J., and Candice scrambled after him and the four of them entered the space with heads pivoting back and forth, looking for anyone who might work there.

  “Can I help you?” a woman with straw-colored hair and makeup that made her look like a cheap prostitute asked.

  “Are you Margo?” M.J. asked. The woman shook her head. “We need to see Margo,” she told the woman, who only stared at her blankly. “Right now!” M.J. yelled. The tension was starting to get to her too.

  The woman jumped at the outburst but she didn’t immediately offer up any more information. Candice then moved to the register and grabbed hold of the woman’s shoulders. “Where is Margo?”

  The woman let out a terrified squeak, but no words came out of her mouth, and M.J. knew she’d be useless for at least another minute or two. So she focused all her intuitive powers on finding Margo within the confines of the walls, but try as she might, nothing came back to her, and she knew that the five people gathered at the front of the small store were the only ones there. “She’s not here,” M.J. said just as the clerk was trying to form words. “Where is she?”

  “She’s coming in late,” the clerk blurted out at last. “What do you want with her?”

  “Call her,” Dutch said, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

  The woman’s face had already drained of color and she was shaking so badly that M.J. feared she might crumple into a heap and be of no use to them. Stepping forward, she said, “Let her go, Candice. Let me try.”

  Candice looked ready to punch the woman, but she did let go of her and stepped back. “Ma’am,” M.J. said in her most reasonable tone. “This is literally a matter of life and death. We need you to call your boss for us, okay? We think that Margo may be a witness to a kidnapping, and we need to speak with her right away.”

  The clerk’s eyes were huge and M.J. heard her gulp audibly. “Are you the police?”

  “Yes,” said Dutch, his fists clenching and unclenching with impatience.

  “Can I see your badge?” the woman said next. M.J. felt her chest tighten. She knew Dutch didn’t have his badge on him.

  “No,” Dutch
replied, his brow darkening to a dangerous degree. “Now make the goddamn—”

  “Ma’am!” M.J. interrupted, regaining the clerk’s attention. “Please! You have to believe us. This is a matter of life and death! Please call your boss for us, okay? We just want to talk with her over the phone, then we’ll be on our way. I promise.”

  Still, the clerk hesitated.

  “Please!” M.J. begged.

  At last the clerk’s eyes shifted to the phone on the counter and she moved there warily. Lifting the receiver, she dialed a number and they all waited those tense few seconds to see if anyone would answer the ring. M.J. knew immediately that they weren’t going to be successful, because the clerk held up the phone and said, “Voice mail.”

  Candice snatched the phone and practically shouted into it. “Margo! This is Candice Fusco! I’m with the FBI working on your friend Rita Watson’s murder. It is vitally important that you contact us immediately! My number is…”

  After leaving her number, Candice hung up and they all stood there for several seconds waiting for the phone to ring. M.J. truly didn’t know what else to do, but then Dutch said to the clerk, “What’s your name?”

  “Ellen,” she said, and under Dutch’s commanding stare she added, “Rhodes. Ellen Rhodes.”

  “Ellen, do you know where Margo lives?”

  The clerk’s eyes got buggy again. “Uh…,” she said. “No. No, I don’t.” She was completely unconvincing.

  Dutch’s brow furrowed to the danger zone again and he took out of his pocket a pair of the handcuffs he’d pulled off the utility belt of the cop he’d tied up with a zip tie back at the house they’d just left. “We can’t,” Candice said sharply, moving to intercept him. “Dutch, we can’t!”

  Dutch’s gaze drifted meaningfully to the round clock above the clerk’s head. “What choice do we have, Candice? She’ll die if we don’t…” His words drifted off and M.J. knew in that moment that he would go to any length to get to Abby in time, even if it involved breaking every law on the books.

  Nudging Candice to the side when she refused to move, Dutch reached out to grab Ellen and she squealed, jerking away to blurt out, “Margo lives two blocks down! The red house! I don’t know the address, but she’s in the red house on the right side at the corner next to the stop sign!”

  Without a word Dutch pocketed the handcuffs, turned, and ran toward the exit. M.J. didn’t waste time apologizing to the clerk; she, Brody, and Candice headed out the door after him.

  Chapter Ten

  “Someone’s at the door,” Dutch mumbled in my ear early Sunday morning. He and I were curled up with each other in bed, which had been moved to the living room not far from the door. The TV was propped up on Dutch’s suitcase and other than that, the house was essentially bare and freezing. A cold snap had hit during the night and our down comforter had been diligently packed by yours truly, leaving us only a thin summer blanket for warmth. Coming fully awake, I then heard three loud raps against our front door. “Mmmph,” Dutch muttered, curling himself closer around me and shivering a little. “Who the hell is that at this hour?”

  My teeth chattered against his neck. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “Who is it?” Dutch called, his voice rich with a huskiness that I found super sexy. (Maybe that’s why I’m always a little more frisky in the mornings?)

  “It’s Candice,” my BFF replied. “You guys still sleeping?”

  “Yes!” we both yelled back.

  “I have coffee!” she sang.

  I lifted my head with interest. I was really cold and coffee could go a long way to warming up my bones. “Open the door, would you, cowboy?”

  “She’s your friend.”

  “Yes, and she’s just brought you coffee.”

  “And bagels!” Candice said through the door.

  Dutch lifted one lid and cocked an eyebrow. “You’re closer,” he said.

  “Yes, but I have less on.”

  Dutch lifted the bedsheet and took a peek. “You’re wearing a tank top and shorts. How exactly is that less?” Dutch was wearing his usual bedtime attire— pajama bottoms and sex appeal.

  “Less material overall,” I told him.

  “Hey, guys? It’s cold out here!”

  “If I get up, I’m taking the blanket with me,” Dutch said.

  I put my arms out and tucked the blanket around me. “Don’t you dare.”

  “Do you want coffee or not?” Candice called through the door.

  “Can’t you just dart out, flip the lock, and run back to bed?” I asked Dutch.

  There was a clicking sound and the door swung open to reveal Candice, eyeing us with irritation as she tried to balance a set of keys, a tray full of coffee cups, and a bag from the bagel shop. “Really?” she growled, coming in and kicking the door closed behind her.

  “Morning!” Dutch and I sang.

  Candice sent us a sharp look and her bootheels echoed loudly across the floor on her way to the kitchen. “It’s freezing in here,” she said, dropping our much coveted coffee on the counter before heading to the thermostat in the hallway. I looked at Dutch and waved toward the kitchen. “Go get the coffee!”

  “Why me?”

  “You’re closer!”

  “She’s your friend.”

  “Who has just brought you coffee!”

  Candice stopped fiddling with the thermostat and came to stand in the doorway of the kitchen, hands on hips and looking at us with marked disapproval. “You two are pathetic, you know that?”

  “We’re cold,” I said, shivering anew.

  Candice frowned and looked around on the floor, tossing me my hoodie and Dutch his shirt. We both donned them quickly and thanked her, but neither of us moved to get out of bed. With a roll of her eyes Candice brought over our coffees. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I said, relishing the warmth of the coffee and the click of the furnace coming on.

  Candice then went into the kitchen to retrieve one of the chairs there and came out to sit down with her own coffee and a really delicious-looking bagel. I wasn’t about to ask her to bring me one (okay, so it did cross my mind, but then, I didn’t think I should push it), and with a bit of a groan I got out of bed and hurried to the kitchen, bringing back the bag for Dutch and me to share.

  “What brings you by, Candice?” Dutch asked casually.

  “Abby asked me to get some dish on the explosion at Mary’s.”

  Dutch ran a hand through his bedhead and blinked tiredly. “What explosion at whose?”

  “Mimi, aka Mary Greene,” Candice said.

  I swallowed a bite of the bagel and said, “I’m assuming you found something good?”

  “Well, I started looking into Mary’s death. Guess how she really died?”

  I made a face. Sensing a trick of some kind, I flipped on my radar and tuned in. I sensed smoke and heat and something explosive. The same as we’d been told. “According to my radar, she died in an explosion caused by a gas leak.”

  “You’re only half-right,” Candice said. “There was a fire, and an explosion, but that’s only the method. Mimi was the cause. She committed suicide.”

  I gasped. “Wait…what?”

  Dutch sat forward. “The coroner’s report indicated accidental death, Candice. I saw it for myself.”

  “Would that coroner be Dr. Nelson Eppley, who retired early six months ago due to illness?”

  Dutch shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  Candice pulled out a manila folder from her purse, and opened it to sort through the papers it contained. “I’m familiar with this particular coroner, Dutch, because I was approached about four months ago by a woman who swore that the coroner’s report on her brother’s death was incorrect. Eppley labeled it an accident, but she was convinced her brother committed suicide. She wanted me to dig into the coroner’s record because she needed to know the truth. She suspected that her brother had gone to the extreme of taking his own life as a direc
t result of a drug he’d been prescribed to help him quit smoking, a drug now off the market due to its mood-altering properties in some patients, and if I could show her that her brother’s death was the result of a depression brought on by this drug—a suicide—then she could move forward with a civil suit against the pharmaceutical company.”

  “What’d you find?” I asked.

  Candice pulled out several more sheets of paper. “Dr. Nelson Eppley is a pretty troubled guy. His illness landed him a few weeks in a mental health facility, shortly after which he put in for early retirement. He now spends most of his days at a local community garden pulling up weeds and tending to the plants. I tried talking to him on a few occasions just to get the feel of the man, but he avoids casual conversation with strangers, and mostly I found him to be a painfully shy, very sad, and perhaps even paranoid man. For my client’s sake, I did a little digging. I discovered that Eppley’s eldest son committed suicide at the tender age of sixteen. Three years later, so did his wife. Thereafter, literally in the first week after his return to work after a short leave of absence following his wife’s death, Eppley began labeling suspected suicides ‘accidents.’ Any case where there was no suicide note or witness, he’d write up as an accidental death. He labeled several hangings accidental autoerotic asphyxiation, several jumps from high places accidental falls, and then of course, my client’s brother was tagged an accidental shooting probably while the victim was cleaning his gun, which completely contradicts the evidence left at the scene and written up in the police report.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Why would Eppley do that?”

  Candice smiled sadly. “Who would know the devastating aftermath of living with a loved one’s suicide better than this man? I believe he was attempting to spare the families the anguish of dealing with the kind of terrible loss and unanswered questions he was all too familiar with.”